


Branches, Bastards and a Bard

by slipperysailors



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack, Crack and Angst, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, kinda crack??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:56:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22789258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slipperysailors/pseuds/slipperysailors
Summary: Jaskier beats the shit out a ghoul and almost dies. Geralt decides he doesn't like that.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 43
Kudos: 572
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette, these bitches gay! good for them!!





	1. The Branch and The Bastard

The beast —forgive Jaskier he doesn’t care for its name, he just knows it’s got a body of a rotten decayed old man, the ugliest snarl and the undeveloped red eyes that follow him with an inferno of hate that he _never_ wants to see again— is booted halfway across the road by his own feet.

“Fuck fuck fuck _fuck_,” He’s scrambling and clawing at the rocky path to get away from it. The nearest weapon to him is a hefty rock that could probably just fit into the palm of his hand, and Jaskier is just right on time when he lobs it behind him as the thing opens it’s jaw again to let out a screech.

Comically, the stone lodges itself between the creatures sawn off tongue and it’s maggot filled mouth. Both him and the creature stop. Jaskier wants to burst out laughing because the creature seems to look at him in disbelief, wide-eyed and outstanded at the sheer luck of his shot. He feels the same in all honesty, not that he’s about to tell the weird fella that. Because Jaskier is reminded that _that_ is the maggot filled mouth that just tried to bite his ass off less than a minute ago. And then, he’s once again pulling himself to his feet and trying to catch up with the Witcher who left him in the dust whilst he was sniffing up a storm.

You’d think from the amount Geralt’s nose twitches he’d be able to smell where a new threat was coming from. Apparently not.

He may make it a few yards before he’s tempted to look behind him again in the dark, and still there is the boney withering creature’s beady bastard eyes following him sharply. Jaskier swallows down as much air as possible, snapping his head back in front of him to continue running, and hopes he finds someone else soon. For the first time, Jaskier is afraid he might die at the teeth of a beast rather than the jealous hands of a man. It’s a rather twisted fate, being friends with a witcher doesn’t make it any different, but he’d always thought with the amount of romping he does, well, someone’s_ bound _to slit his throat eventually.

But he thinks about this all too late as the claws of the creature are back on his legs, slicing through the silky fabric and into his soft flesh. Jaskier slams down with a howl, his face picking up cuts into the dusty stone path. The beast is still clawing up his leg, ripping open more of his flesh,

“Oh fuck you!” He’s kicking out again even if the movement is a whole new kind of burning shooting into his nerves and he’s feeling the blood gushing from him faster. The kick manages to hit the thing somewhere important as it’s hit a good few feet back and clutches itself in pain. Jaskier takes the opportunity to search frantically for anything to get his hands on. It seems to all just be pebbles and tiny broken stones. He can't see the edge of the path, but his hands find themselves briskly wading through a patch of muddied grass. His fingers brush against the hard bark of a fallen branch and he rips it from the mud, caking it all over his hands, as the creature starts to loom closer again.

“Alright you bitch, come at me, it’s fair game now,” Jaskier shrieks at it, swishes the makeshift sword in the air.

It lunges for him. Jaskier slaps it ferociously with the thick branch into the floor. Repeatedly. And he shouts out a string of messy of insults as he’s high on adrenaline, bludgeoning the ever-loving shit out of a zombie-creature with some fucking branch that he found on the floor and somehow magically hasn’t broke.

The creature shrieks and Jaskier’s deaf to it. The primal instinct of survival overcomes. There’s so much oozing and splattering blood. It covers him head to toe as he just keeps beating into the beast. Unyielding even when the thing goes limp, because he doesn’t know if it’s really dead. His clothes are drenched and he doesn’t much care for his silks at that moment, he doesn’t much care for anything other than survival.

So he misses the galloping if hooves that come to stop behind him, the smack of boots hitting the floor and the soft call of his name. He isn’t brought back until a firm warm hand places itself on his shoulder.

“Jaskier, enough.''Jaskier pants heavily, still on his knees, still bleeding out, but his arms go rigid and still. He guards a look at Geralt, eyes pitch black and he would have been indistinguishable from darkness if it wasn’t for his pale complexion. Geralt’s fingers grip around his wrist, sliding gently into his palm and around the held out branch. Slowly, he pried it from Jaskier’s grip and dropped it on the floor. “Enough,”

And the Witcher is pulling him in tightly to his chest, listening intently to the rapid pounding of Jaskiers heart. The man’s hands shake roughly in his own,

“Jas, it’s okay,” His rough voice is unusually soft now. A tender murmur in his ear like that of secret lovers. Jaskier feels so dizzy, it can’t be real.

Jaskier’s sobs wreck through him whilst his tears collect in Geralt’s shirt. “Don’t-” He pushes himself back to get a better look at the Witcher. He takes his trembling hand and touches it to Geralt’s cheek, “Don’t leave me,” And even in the clouded thoughts that pursue after losing an enormous amount of blood, -because that shitty-little creature has probably hit an artery, not that he can actually tell as he’s that dazed- Jaskier can’t bare the thought that fake or real Geralt leaves him. Like this or in any other case.

Geralt ignores him. His brain starts ticking with urgency and he’s ripping off his shirt sleeve before he’s even aware. Jaskier is groaning in pain, even if he tries to hide it, but he’s letting Geralt do as he wishes. The thick souring stench of fear wafts off him. It mingles with the taste of his fresh blood in the air with a fiery dance. Geralt pauses, just ever so slightly that only a well attended person to his actions would notice the hesitation, which Jaskier does, as he wraps the make-shift bandage around the gushing wounds in his calves.

He says nothing. Because Geralt can’t make any promises. The silence stretches on until Jaskier’s hands fall from him and he’s trying to stand again. Trying to push himself up on legs that have gone numb.

“You should leave me,” he says, finitely. Because there’s this helpless feeling that this is because of _him_. He knows the bard isn’t useless, point proven how he managed to slaughter a ghoul with a _fucking _branch, but he can’t help want to protect him now as Jaskier attempts to cover his pain. The idea that_ this is_ _his fault _is overwhelming, if the bard hadn’t followed him— 

Jaskier slaps him. Hard.

“_No_.” He hisses, and then, he falls slack, unconscious in Geralt’s arms.

Shit.


	2. And The Bard

At first, he thought that the whiteness above was a sign he’d actually died and was in a different plane of existence. But then he sees the faint reminance of yellow piss stains on the ceiling and realises he’s in a very uncomfortable bed that seems to scratch at his arms, the smell of stale piss and booze filtering dutifully into his nose.

Ah, he’s alive. Such a shame, he wouldn’t have minded an eternity of doing whatever the fuck he wanted. Not that he doesn't do that anyway, he plays the lute and shags who he wants, minus a certain Witcher. That's the dream life.

He decides this is a better time than any to make sure he isn’t held down by bondage ropes on the bed posts, as his limbs feel like they’ve been stretched to extreme lengths. Jaskier sits up, no bondage ropes to restrain him. He definitely feels dizzy and doesn’t attempt to move again for some time. He wiggles his fingers, hoping he still has all of them otherwise it’s a downfall for his career, and they feel bruised but he'll survive. 

“Thank Melitele,” he breathes.

Jaskier attempts to move his legs now, “Oh shit, that_ hurts_,” and then peels back the thin blanket covering his legs to look at where the current splitting ache spills into his nerves from. There’s freshly applied bandages wrapping around several large gashes in the back of his legs, but all is well otherwise. He’s stopped bleeding and can feel an unfamiliarly thick substance, like clotted cream, that clings to the wounds.

He lets his eyes roam the room some more, noting the pot of pink, purple and yellow wild flowers, that he can’t be asked to recognise with names quite yet, that sit beside the window as it let’s in streaks of bright light into the room. The sky is crystal clear outside. He sees Geralt’s armour piled into a corner, the swords respectively rested up against the wall, and their owner clearly missing.

There’s a faint rasp of knuckles on the door, Geralt falsely grins at him, leaning against the door frame, arms folded across his beefy chest. Suddenly, Jaskier couldn’t really give less of a shit about getting hurt as long as Geralt keeps that exact position for the rest of his life. Because you haven't seen it, oh no certainly not, not the way Geralt is bathed in the halo of sunlight like he has been chosen by Melitele herself for Jaskier to personally worship. His hip jutted out on the door frame like he’s about to walk over here all sexually-frustrated and finally ravish him -maybe that’s more Jaskier than anything. Oh, the beauty of his ass that Jaskier can’t wait to see turn. And that false smile, converts into adoration when he sees Jaskier’s own leering smirk as he takes his eyes greedily down Geralt.

Maybe he is dead. Or at least, going to die of asphyxiation because Geralt makes him breathless. A much better way to go than jealous man hands, if he’s honest.

“Who would have thought that the Great White Wolf could smile in such dire times? You had me fooled,” 

“How are you feeling?” The witcher unfolds his arms, ignoring Jaskier’s comment on the smile that still hasn’t left, and moves to the bedside so Jaskier can see him clearer. He’d expected Geralt to be - angry? Especially after that slap he barely remembers giving, but there is a reason his hand still stings. Geralt_ did_ deserve it.

“Quite perky actually, I might have to get into this witchering business myself, doesn’t seem all that hard,” He does actually feel like shit, but Geralt already knows that, from the way Jaskier’s skin is still sweaty, sickly, and pale. The way Jaskier let’s the words drawl out rather than with his usual high-effort bite and how he can’t stop the room from spinning when he moves too fast. “How long have I been asleep?” Finally, The Witcher’s smile splits back into the familiar emotionless thin line he’s so used to seeing. Geralt sits, in a chair that’s been positioned to watch over him in the bed.

“A day,”

“Mhm, and how long until I can walk normally?”

“Two weeks maybe.”

“Shit,” he sometimes forgets that being with Geralt, travelling with him, doesn’t actually make him any less human or unmutated. He doesn’t have the same abilities that Geralt does, he can’t just bludgeon a night-monster and not expect repercussions. He’s not a witcher - although he is one hell of a bad ass- and getting injured comes with its toll. He also knows that if it wasn't for Geralt, he’d have died on that stone road. If it wasn’t Geralt, and the whole Witcher aliment package, Jaskier would have been injured for a lot longer.

He reaches out for Geralt’s hand which is rested on his knee. And he delicately laces their fingers together, “Thank you,” It’s tender, loving, let’s Jaskier have a fresh comfort to his pain. Geralt looks back into Jaskier’s brightening eyes,

“It shouldn’t have happened.” He ruins it. He lights the moment up in flames and practically dances joyfully like a delighted leprechaun on Jaskier’s grave.

“Oh fuck _off_,” Jaskier doesn’t bother releasing their hands, “You are_ the _most melodramtic moron I have ever met, and I’ve met _me_. You just ruined a perfectly good moment, Geralt. I love you but Melitele didn’t put me on this fucking earth to have you running around saying the_ most_ stupidest shit. I’d slap you again if I wasn’t incapicated right now. ”

His rambling is a lot to unpack, but he definitely catches the way Geralt’s eyebrows raise over the words ‘_I love you_’. Jaskier ignores it in the vain hope Geralt focuses on something else before he has to explain himself quite so soon.

“Jas,” He says calmly, and if his fingers tighten just that little bit more around his own, that’s only because he’s trying to get Jaskier to stop looking away after all that he’s said. “I shouldn’t have left you, you shouldn’t of had to-,”

Another moment, ruined. Geralt’s practically pissing on his grave now. “First of all, I was well acquainted with the dangers of travelling before I met you, so don't get high and mighty. More importantly, are you really going to ignore the fact I just confessed my undying love for you? Are we just going to pretend that didn’t happen?” Nevermind what he wanted before, he wants to know what Geralt thinks. He has to know.

Geralt stays silent.

Jaskier snatches his hand back, “I get the message.” He folds his arms over his chest and looks back over to the bright sky out of the window, the wild flowers in the pot that cover the street and only allow him to look into the sky. Usually, he’d muse about it’s great expanse, to wait until Geralt leaves. But his brain is just still that little bit too hazy to make an Oxenfurt-worthy description of how the sky is blank and blue.

There’s a hand that seizes his cheek, and he’s forcefully brought back around to look at Geralt. Geralt who is leaning in closer than he should be for a friend. Their lips are ghosting dangerously close, hot breath mingling together. Geralt’s eyes are blown up gold and sparkling diligently into his own.

“Don’t tease me if you don’t mean it.”

But he does mean it. He finds that out when Geralt brings their lips to each other in a hot rush. Jaskier is suddenly a lot dizzier from more than just blood loss. He’s so physically weak that he knows not much will come of this, _activity_ _wise_, but the gentle pace that the kiss takes is enough to reassure him of Geralt. That Geralt is real, he means this, he intends to nip gently at Jaskier’s lower lip. He aims to have Jaskier groan in long awaited satisfaction, panting when he pulls back and licking his lips. And Geralt plan’s to keep doing it, point proven when he captures Jaskier’s mouth again.

Jaskier’s carding his fingers through Geralt’s hair, his other hand cupping Geralt’s chin. Forehead’s rested together in contentment when they pull apart, they both keep their eyes closed. 

“Who would have guessed, that all_ I_ had to do was insult you and then you’d kiss me. Thought I was going to have to beat another bastard with a branch for a moment there.”

“Jaskier?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

“Alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah! that's all done folks,  
hope you enjoyed the read!
> 
> im also @slipperyseamen on tumblr if u want to find me

**Author's Note:**

> howdy!  
I really love writing bamf jaskier so im delighted to present you with this bad boy  
i'm thinking about possibly putting out a witcher!jaskier fic because honestly? its another excuse to write bamf jaskier  
so maybe, we shall see


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